"Well, it's not working," said Motiak. "They can't destroy you without harming me, because I know that what you teach is true. I know that it's right. And I'm not going to back down."

Didul raised one hand a little from the table. The others deferred to him. "I know that I'm only a priest from one of the provinces... ."

"Skip the formalities, Didul, and get to the point," said Motiak impatiently. "We know who you are."

"You are king, sir," said Didul. "You must decide in such a way that your power to govern, to keep the peace, is not damaged."

"I hope that you aren't just pointing out the obvious," said Motiak. "I hope that you have a specific plan in mind."

"I do, sir. I have also read the book of Oykib, and the two later cases that were tried under the Sherem law. And both times the king turned the case over to the high priest to be tried. I think it was that very precedent that Nuab used in consulting with his priests during the trial of Binaro."

Akmaro stiffened. "You can't be suggesting that I should sit in judgment on these men and pronounce a sentence of death on them!"

Chebeya chuckled grimly. "Didul begged you not to make him come with you, Akmaro, but you insisted that you had dreamed of him sitting with you in council with the king and made him come along."

"There was a true dream involved with this?" asked Motiak.

"There was a dream!" said Akmaro. "You can't do this to me!"

"It's an offense against the religious authority," said Motiak. "Let it be tried by the religious authority."

"This solves nothing!" cried Akmaro. "The case is still a miserable knot!"

"But as Didul pointed out," said Motiak, "it removes it from a place where it can damage the authority of the king and the peace of the kingdom. I'll have my decision written up on a bark immediately, Akmaro. The case can only be tried by the high priest, and you have full powers of disposition."

"I won't put them to death," said Akmaro. "I won't do it."

"I think you had better think about the law before you make rash decisions," said Motiak. "Think about the consequences of your decision."

"No one can be one of the Kept if he follows the Keeper out of fear of execution!" cried Akmaro.

"It will all be in your hands," said Motiak. "Akmaro, forgive me, but whatever happens, the consequences will be less terrible for your having made the decision and not me." Motiak arose and left the room.

In the ensuing silence, Akmaro's voice came out as a rasping whisper. "Didul, don't ask me to forgive you for turning this on me."

Didul blanched. "I didn't ask your forgiveness," he said, "because I was not wrong. I agree with you completely. No one should die for speaking against the doctrine you teach."

"So in your infinite wisdom, Didul, do you have any suggestions for what I should do?"

"I don't know what you should do," said Didul. "But I think I know what you will do."

"And what is that?"

"Declare them guilty, but change the penalty."

"To what?" demanded Akmaro. "Dismemberment? Removal of the tongue? Public flogging? Forfeiture of property? Oh, I know-they have to live for a year in a tunnel with the diggers they despise so much!"

"With all your authority from the Keeper," said Didul, "you can't give someone back a missing hand or tongue, you can't heal the wounds from lashes on their back, you can't make new land or property. All you have the power to give them is by way of teaching them how the Keeper wants all his children to live, and then bringing them through the water to make them new men and women, brothers and sisters in the Keeper's House. Since that's all you can give them, then when they refuse those teachings isn't that all you can rightly take away?"

Akmaro looked at Didul with a steady gaze. "You thought this out before, didn't you? This was already in your mind before you came here."

"Yes," said Didul. "I thought that was how things would work out."

"But you didn't bother to say any of it to me until you talked the king into dumping the whole thing into my lap."

"Until the king gave the case to you for trial, sir, I had no reason to make any suggestions to you about its disposition."

"I have brought a snake into my house," said Akmaro.

Didul flinched at the words.

"Oh, don't take offense, Didul. Snakes are wise. They also shed their skins and become new men from time to time. Something that I'm apparently overdue for. So I make a declaration that the only penalty for preaching against the high priest is that you are turned out of the House of the Keeper. What then, Didul? Do you realize what will happen?"

"Only the believers will remain."

"You underestimate the cruelty of men and women, Didul. Without the threat of criminal penalties, the worms will come out from under their rocks. The bullies. The tormentors."

"I know the type," said Didul softly.

"I urge you to leave for home at once," said Akmaro. "When this decree is made tomorrow, you'll want to be in Bodika to help the Kept there deal with what will surely come."

"You speak as if this were my fault, sir," said Didul stiffly. "Before I go, I have a right to hear you admit to my face that I have done nothing more than tell you what you would inevitably have decided yourself."

"Yes!" said Akmaro. "And I'm not angry at you anyway. Yes I would have made exactly this decision because it's right. But what will happen to the Kept, to the House of the Keeper, I don't know. I fear it, Didul. That's why I'm angry."

"It's the Keeper's House," said Didul. "Not ours. The Keeper will show us a way out of this."

"Unless the Keeper is testing Darakemba to see if we're worthy," said Akmaro. "Remember that the Keeper can also decide to reject us. The way he rejected the Rasulum, when evil triumphed among them. Their bones cover the desert sand for miles."

"I'll keep that cheerful thought in mind all the way home," said Didul.

They arose from the table. Akmaro and Chebeya hurried out; Edhadeya stopped Didul at the door. "Did you decide anything about Luet?" she asked.

It seemed to take Didul a moment to realize what she was talking about. "Oh. Yes. I decided last night that I'd speak to her today. Only... only now I have work to do. It's not a good time for love or marriage, Edhadeya. I have higher responsibilities than that."

"Higher?" she asked nastily. "Higher than love?"

"If you didn't think that service to the Keeper is the higher responsibility," said Didul, "you would long since have joined with Akma out of love for him. But you haven't. Because you know that love must sometimes take a second place." He left.

Edhadeya leaned against the doorpost for a long time, thinking about what he had said. I love Akma, and yet it has never once occurred to me to join with him in rejecting the Keeper. But that isn't because I love the Keeper more, the way Didul does. It's because I know what I know, and to be with Akma I would have to lie. I won't give up my honesty for any man. Nothing as noble in that as Didul's sacrifice. Unless perhaps my honor is also a way to serve the Keeper.